The Other One: The Ballad of Sherrinford Holmes
by TanGrrYnes
Summary: In a moment of emotional weakness, Sherlock finally confides in John about his older brother Sherrinford and his role in Sherlock's life. John is staying with Sherlock for a few nights to make certain he doesn't slip and start using again. Learn about Sherrinford, the middle Holmes boy, and why this is the time of year Sherlock needs a friend like John the most.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes sat in his dusty armchair at 221B Baker Street in London. The sky was swirled with thick, melancholy black clouds, weeping into the city streets. Every few minutes shocks of lightning and thunder interrupted the picture that mirrored Sherlock's heart and mind.  
He held before him an old photograph of twelve or thirteen years. It pictured three handsome young men, brothers, posed upon a staircase, looking out over the railing side by side. At the tallest step stood the eldest brother, a twenty-something Mycroft Holmes with a thick, dark brown pomp of hair slicked neatly over his head. His serious mouth and scrutinizing eyes were still the same now.  
At the bottom stood an annoyed looking Sherlock, barely eighteen and the blush of youth still evident in his rosy cheeks and bountiful black curls.  
"Who's the boy in the middle?" John Watson asked quietly. Sherlock shook his head in protest, unwilling or unable to say.  
"Sherlock," John said gently, squeezing his friends' shoulder. "You go through this every year. Now, you know I'm here. I'm here for you. It's okay to speak about him."  
Sherlock suppressed a shuddering sob and reached for the hand that gripped his shoulder.  
"He's my brother. The other one. His name is Sherrinford."  
A vacant expression overcame Sherlock's face and his eyes unfocused. He was going back in time. Back to his youth, and back to his brother.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
"Sherlock, leave that alone," Thirteen-year old Mycroft told his youngest brother. "You don't want to break it, do you?"  
"Oh, he's just looking," Sherrinford said. "That's how he learns about things. He needs to examine them."  
Sherlock, six, placed the fragile antiquated binoculars from his grandmother's desk back where he got it. He was done looking now, anyways. Sherrinford took Sherlock by the hand.  
"Let's go outside and play," he offered. "You can stand on the pegs on my bike and I'll ride you around."  
Sherlock whooped excitedly and ran outside, Sherrinford close behind.  
A few years later, Sherrinford is teaching Sherlock how to play rugby. Mycroft watches from a safe distance so as to not dirty himself. Sherrinford and Sherlock were always playing outside together. Always in the dirt, playing rough and getting hurt. Mycroft didn't understand the appeal. He could see in Sherlock something of himself. He was curious about everything. Sharp as a tack. But he was also just like Sherrinford, a natural athlete. Mycroft tried to teach Sherlock, make him not just see, but observe. He did well enough on his own, but he needed much guidance. But Sherrinford was always there to distract him with games and childish nonsense.  
"Sherlock, don't eat too many sweets. You'll get a tummy ache," Mycroft warned one day.  
"No I won't," Sherlock said, popping another taffy into his sticky mouth.  
"Why do you always buy him so many sweets?" Mycroft complained to Sherrinford.  
"Because it's fun, that's why."  
"Well, you're responsible for making certain he cleans his teeth. Mother will have a fit if Sherlock has rotten teeth when we see the dentist next week."  
Of course, Sherrinford did nothing of the sort, and young Sherlock was stubborn and refused to brush his teeth before bed.  
"Sherlock, open your mouth!" Mycroft growled, trying to force a sudsy toothbrush into his baby brother's mouth.  
Sherlock shoved Mycroft away, and losing his patience, Mycroft smacked Sherlock in the face. Tears filled young Sherlock's eyes and Sherrinford came running.  
"What'd you do that for?" Sherrinford shouted at his older brother. Mycroft left in a huff, leaving his younger brothers to themselves.  
"There, there," Sherrinford said soothingly, wiping away Sherlocks' tears.  
"That wasn't very nice of Mycroft, was it?"  
It was the most difficult day of Sherlock's young life. The day his faithful, clever Redbeard was put down. Everything Sherlock ever knew, everything he ever trusted in all came crashing down on him that day. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He didn't even hear himself screaming and crying that his dog was gone.  
Who was there to hold him? Who was there to tell Sherlock that everything was going to be alright? Who rocked him to sleep that night, even though he was far too old to be rocked to sleep? Big brother Sherrinford. The only human being on heaven and earth that could console Sherlock Holmes.  
As the Holmes boys grew older, their differences and similarities were more and more profound.  
Mycroft was callous and calculating. His purpose in life was to maintain order and to possess knowledge. He was well on his way to becoming the brains of the British government. Sherrinford, three years younger than Mycroft, was a natural athlete. He cared nothing of science, or reasoning, or theory. He was happiest on a skateboard, or a bike, or swimming in a lake. Sherlock was much the same as Mycroft, however, he struggled emotionally and had a strong love of music and athletics, a wunderkind possessing the most favorable qualities found in his brothers; a perfect mix of them both.  
Mrs. Holmes was graying and somewhat wrinkled about the eyes and mouth now. She was getting older, and so were her boys. It was rare nowadays that the three of them happened to be at home all at once. Indeed, the only reason all the Holmes boys were under the same roof now was because it was Christmas and Mycroft was home from wherever he had gone (he wouldn't tell. It was top secret), and Sherrinford was lucky enough to have a break from training for the olympic games. Sherlock would be eighteen in just less than two weeks and after that his high school career was over. He was going to study chemistry.  
"Now, you boys line up on the staircase," their mother told them. "Mycroft, darling, you at the top, yes, and then Sherrinford, dear. Good, yes. Where's Sherlock?"  
"Sherlock, stop hiding at just take a picture with us, for God's sake!" Mycroft snapped. He earned no response.  
"Let me get him," Sherrinford offered.  
He found Sherlock skulking in the pantry off the kitchen, eating some pilfered candy canes from the Christmas tree.  
"Come on, Sher," Sherrinford said, gently ushering his brother by the small of his back. "Let's go take a picture. Mum would love it."  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, "Why must we do this every year?"  
"It's tradition. Without it, families would fall."  
"It's preposterous."  
"Come on," Sherrinford said. "Do it for mum. That's a good man. Lets not forget to smile, shall we?"  
Sherlock grudgingly took his place on the lowest step, in front of Sherrinford. He glared at the camera, loathing the flash of light it produced.  
Mrs. Holmes was more than pleased , and just a little saddened. Her baby would be leaving soon, all grown up. She kissed Sherlock on the cheek and the only reason he didn't flinch away was because Sherrinford had a firm hold on the back of his neck.  
Christmas was always difficult for Sherlock, for many reasons. He loathed social gatherings, for example. He thought religion was for fools, and he thought even worse of those who celebrated religious holidays who were not themselves religious. He hated giving gifts, because somehow his gifts were always inappropriate and more often than not Sherlock found himself in trouble.  
Mostly, though, Christmas was difficult for Sherlock because when he was very young, he was gifted a puppy. And now that puppy was dead and the pain was as raw seven years later as it was when he was put down. But Sherrinford was there to hoist Sherlock up, keep him walking. When he was young, Sherlock thought the world of his older brother. Sherrinford was as close to him as he let any human be. They played sports together, Sherrinford was his protecter at school and at home, from bullies, and Mycroft. He was the only one that could manage Sherlock, for his parents had no grip on him, and Mycroft had no patience. But Sherrinford was different.  
"Don't listen to Mycroft," Sherrinford once told him. "He thinks that knowing everything is the most important thing in life. What kind of life is it to lead, when your fifty and lonely, with no wife or children, or friends, or perhaps even family? It's good to be clever, Sherlock, but don't let it consume you. There's so much more to life than being right."  
"Is there?" Sherlock asked. "I find immense satisfaction in being right. And I feel abhorrence in the presence of love and fellowship. All it serves to do is distract me from my purpose. It's the crack in the lens, Sherrinford. It doesn't do me any good."  
"You sound just like Mycroft," Sherrinford laughed. "All I'm saying, Sher, is that sometimes feelings might feel bad, but we need them."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"Someday you'll figure it out."  
When he was older, Sherlock realized just how different Sherrinford was. He was different because he was ordinary. He was no great genius like Mycroft, or a savant like Sherlock. He had no extraordinary talents save his penchant for sports. He couldn't look at a man and observe where he had been or what he was doing. He couldn't see the result of an action and determine the chain of events that led to the result. He didn't know science, or logic, or rhetoric. He was an ordinary fool, but he was kind, and strangely wise. He knew love and friendship, and the value each possessed.  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell buzzed and Sherlock snapped back into the present time. He slowly moved his eyes towards John, as if the action were physically taxing. The doorbell buzzed once again.  
"John...the door," Sherlock croaked.  
"I'm not leaving your side," John said firmly. "The moment my back is turned, you'll have shot up a dozen needles of whatever it is you use these days. I won't let you, Sherlock."  
The buzzer sounded a third time, and Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard from the hallway downstairs. Apologies were audible but nothing more.  
"Must have been a client."  
"A case!" Sherlock gasped with sudden fervor, sitting upright in his chair. "John, I need a case!"  
"No, you need to stop looking for distractions," John told him. "Tell me more about your brother."  
Sherlock sank back into his chair, the life visibly melting from him. His eyes went blank but he could see Sherrinford as though he were standing there in front of him.

"Mum! Dad!" Sherrinford called, running to fetch his parents. He found them both in the garden in front of the house.  
"Mum! Dad!" Sherlock's collapsed!"  
They ran to him. He was crumpled, limp as a ragdoll on the floor of the sitting room.  
"What happened?" Mr. Holmes senior asked. falling to his knees beside his youngest son.  
"He just got up, out of his room, went down the stairs and fell on his face," Sherriford said quickly. "He wouldn't eat his lunch."  
"Damn it all, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes senior growled, though the boy did not hear.  
Sherlock was taken to the hospital, whereupon he was admitted for three days for malnutrition, and his family learned something shocking about him.  
"We found the chemical compound C17H21NO4 in Sherlock's system," the doctor explained.  
"What's that? Mr. Holmes senior asked, clutching his wife to his side.  
"It's commonly referred to as cocaine," the doctor explained with difficulty. "It's a powerful stimulant, and it leaves abusers crashing for days. Sherlock's lack of appetite can be attributed to his injection of cocaine, as can the collapse. He was unharmed in the fall."  
"What do we do?" Mrs. Holmes asked.  
"In my professional opinion," the doctor said delicately, "I think Sherlock needs to be admitted into a mental health facility. He can get help there."  
Sherrinford was the only one who saw Sherlock for what he was. A tragic genius. Given gifts beyond imagining but also stripped of the ability to cope with such gifts. Sherlock had to figure out the world the way he needed to. And sometimes that meant he had to scream at himself in the mirror to understand. Sometimes he had to slap himself in the face, so he could look at the problem harder and figure it out. And with Sherlock, everything was a problem. Everything needed to be clever, to have a solution for him to discover. Where others saw indecency, or madness, or illness, Sherrinford saw his beautiful-minded little brother Sherlock.  
Sherrinford brought Sherlock taffy every day while he was at the mental institution for children with...instabilities. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were so upset. Aggrieved that their son was so helpless and hurting. But Sherrinford was upset for other reasons. He looked around him and he saw children with disorders. Disabilities. Illnesses that all made them mad. But Sherlock was not one of them.  
"It's that stupid unsolved murder case he found!" Sherrinford told his mother and father. "I know it is. It's been eating away at him for weeks. He can't figure it out."  
"This isn't a game," Mr. Holmes senior said crossly. "Sherlock is ill. He needs help."  
"He's not! He just needs to solve the crime. Just wait and see."  
Sherrinford sat with his brother in the common room. Other patients were scattered about here and there, some with visitors, some not.  
"Let me help you solve that murder," Sherrinford said, pulling some taffy from his pockets and handing them to Sherlock.  
"When you solve the murder, you can come home." Sherrinford said, smiling encouragingly. "Then you'll feel better. Right?"  
"The one about Emelia Ricoletti?" Sherlock asked, "'The abominable bride?"  
"Yes, her!"  
"I solved that ages ago," Sherlock informed his brother poutily.  
"Y-you did?" Sherrinford asked, visibly crestfallen. "Then what's wrong, Sher? Why won't you eat?"  
"Digestion interferes with my thinking."  
"What are you thinking so hard about?"  
"Everything," Sherlock answered.  
Sherrinford tried with all his might to keep the tears from welling in his eyes.  
"You're only fourteen, Sherlock. Nobody has the world all figured out at that age."  
"Sherrinford," Sherlock said impatiently. "I have to figure this out. I can't live without reason."  
"What can I do to help?"  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you willing to break the law?"  
"I'll do whatever I must if it brings you home safe," Sherrinford whispered intensely.  
"Bring me some."  
"Some what?" Sherrinford's eyes widened as he understood. "I will bring you enough for one hit."  
"That's all I need. Cocaine provides me with a few moments of exceptional clarity."  
"Here's what I need from you," Sherrinford said. "I give you the drugs, and whether or not you figure out what you think you need to figure out right now, you start eating, and you move on to another problem to solve. Do you understand?"  
The next night, after lights-out, Sherlock quietly crept into the private bathroom of his room, careful to not wake his roommate. Once the door was locked, he undressed himself and sat in the shower. The syringe was taped to the side of his leg since lunch time today. He was still weak physically. He suspected to be in the hospital for another week after this. Without much trepidation, Sherlock created a tourniquet with his shoelaces and once he found a promising vein, slid the needle in and released the poison into his bloodstream. Tossing the needle aside, he sat back against the cold shower wall and felt his mind clear of all mundane elements. He let go of everything that wasn't the truth, everything that kept him from the answer.  
Doctors found Sherlock passed out naked in the shower the next morning after his roommate said he went in last night and never came back out. Sherlock was placed back in the hospital to monitor his heart rate and blood pressure and determine if there was anything else that might be physically unsound with him.  
Along with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came Sherrinford, naturally, and to Sherlock's mild surprise, Mycroft. The eldest Holmes boy asked for a moment alone with Sherlock in his hospital room. Sherlock sat, utterly black with depression and melancholy, crashing hard from last night's high.  
Mycroft had this special gift, one could call it. The ability to yell at a person in anger, without actually raising his voice. Mycroft's severe expressions and ever-scrutinizing eyes chewed Sherlock up and down until there was little of him left.  
He went on about how Sherlock was the shame of the family. How he'd once had high prospects, but now he was ruined. The worry and heartbreak he put their parents through...how could he be so selfish? Not to mention how bad it looks for Mycroft that his baby brother has a drug habit. God forbid the government found that out.  
Sherlock listened, but he didn't really care. He couldn't. There was little emotion strong enough in him now to be concerned about anything, save for the crushing despondency that currently consumed him.  
When Mycroft was done, he left in a huff and Sherrinford took his place. An expression of sympathy overcame him at the sight of his brother. He looked more ill after this time than he had when they first admitted him.  
"You alright?" Sherrinford asked.  
"I suspect I'm rather dehydrated. I'm still weak. This crash is possibly the worst one I've had yet. If I wasn't too weak to stand, I might jump off the roof of the hospital."  
"Sherlock!"  
"The feeling will pass," Sherlock assured his brother. "Can I have something to eat?"  
"Yeah!" Sherrinford said, jumping to his feet. "You're hungry? This is good. What'd you want?"  
"Nothing," Sherlock said. "I'm not hungry. If I calculated correctly, I won't regain my appetite for another three days. But you kept your word, so I will keep mine."  
Sherrinford ruffled his brother's curly hair. "I'll go get you something," he said. "Be right back."  
Sherrinford sat in the hallway against the wall for a moment and sobbed quietly into his hands for his poor little brother whose beautiful mind was destroying him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherrinford lost the focus in his eyes. Was deaf to the screaming in his ears. All he knew was pain, as his body hit the floor, slick with sweat and saliva and grease. Somewhere, far away, he heard the muddled countdown. An executioner swinging his axe, until he reaches the number one, and hits his mark.  
But the axe never fell. Sherrinford heaved himself off the floor, dizzy and disorientated from the heavy blows to his skull. But some way, somehow, in the split second of frozen bewilderment, Sherrinford's gloved fist smashed into the jaw of his opponent boxer, spinning him round on his toes like a top, and sending him crashing to the ground with a great thud. He was out cold. Sherrinford with blood dripping from his ear, and his eye swollen shut; his body glowing with the sweat and glory of a champion.  
"Did you win, then?" Sherlock asked, emerging from the shadows of Sherrinford's private dressing room.  
"Of course I won," Sherrinford said happily. "Can't you hear 'em calling my name?"  
"I can hear them calling "Ford," Sherlock said, tossing his older brother a bag of ice.  
"That's my name," Sherrinford told him. "You know, cause I'm built like truck."  
"Amusing," Sherlock said.  
"So what're you doing here?" Sherrinford asked, plunking himself down in his chair and slapping the bag of ice over his swollen, purple eye.  
"I hear one of your mates dabbles in a few...fun things.  
"Where'd you hear a story like that?"  
"Mycroft has eyes and ears all over the country. You know that."  
"So why're you here and not him?"  
"My interests differ from Mycrofts'."  
"Just tell me what you want, Sher," Sherrinford said.  
Sherlock explained that what Big Daddy had in his briefcase would prove most beneficial to him. It was only for solving a case. Nothing recreational.  
"You sure?" Sherrinford asked. "You need more and more of a fix these days. You're too smart to need all that help."  
"This one is big, Ford," Sherlock told him. "I can't quite grasp it. I need morphine."  
"Go ask him yourself."  
"He doesn't trust me."  
"Won't Mycroft find out?"  
"Mycroft will find out whether or not Big Daddy deals to me or not," Sherlock said.  
And so it was that Sherrinford copped Sherlock enough morphine to get through this case of his.  
"You promise you'll keep eating?" Sherrinford asked.  
"I always keep my promises," Sherlock reminded him.  
It wasn't long before Sherlock called on Sherrinford again to score some morphine for him from Big Daddy. He called again and again, and soon Sherrinford realized that Sherlock had a problem, and he was enabling it. But what could he do? Sherlock possessed one of the greatest minds the likes of which the world had ever seen. He needed the drugs to cope with being himself. And who was Sherrinford to take that away? He just wanted his little brother to be okay. And slowly poisoning himself with drugs was better than going off the deep end and mass murdering a train of people and then committing suicide by jumping off Big Ben.  
This time, something went wrong. This deal, someone knew something who shouldn't have, and all of Scotland Yard swooped down upon Big Daddy and his den of crackheads and whores. Sherrinford immediately dropped to his knees, like the police told them all to do, and put his hands behind his head where they could see them. But Big Daddy had other ideas than going to jail that day. So he sucker punched the nearest officer and whipped out a shiny silver handgun from the back of his pants. Everything happened so fast, Sherrinford wasn't sure what just happened, but Big Daddy was bleeding on the ground and Sherrinford didn't think twice about jumping to his side.  
"Will!" he cried, holding his fellow's face in his hands. "Oh, God!" There was a hole in is face the size of a nickel oozing blood.  
Will, better known as Big Daddy, was dead.  
More authorities trampled inside the building and now that shots were fired, all hell broke loose. Everyone was an enemy. Sherrinford just wanted to get out of there. This wasn't like a one-on-one boxing match, where there was form, and logic, and rules. This was chaos, and Sherrinford didn't know what to do. He stood up, dodging bullets as he ran. He figured it was better to run and live, and then go to jail than to be shot dead right now.  
He was halfway there. Halfway to freedom. Halfway to life. He could see the open door, clear of any obstacles. But then he tripped. Over what? Perhaps the leg of a chair, or a person. Maybe shoes. But it didn't matter, because he fell right on top of a police officer. Where had he come from? He wasn't there a moment ago. The young officer, barely old enough to grow a beard, panicked. A professional boxer was crashing down upon him. Was the man armed? The young man didn't know. He would never know what happened next, or why, but they fell together in a crumbled of arms and legs and nobody heard the gun fire over the rest of the noise, but Sherrinford felt his life slipping away fast.  
His body went cold, but the would burned like a hot poker. Sherrinford knew he wasn't going to jail. He wouldn't make it.  
"Sher..." he gurgled. "...Sherlock..."  
The young officer stood over him in horror. Sherrinford smiled at him. He had curly black hair, and bright blue eyes. "...You...look like..."  
Sherrinford shuddered and was still. His smile would forever haunt the young officer that reminded Sherrinford of his little brother.


	4. Chapter 4

The Holmes family was at the hospital. Sherlock didn't understand why. Hospitals were for dying and sick people. Not for people that were already dead.  
Mrs. Holmes clutched Sherlock painfully tight and sobbed into his shoulder. Mr Holmes stood over them and placed a comforting hand on the shoulders of his wife and youngest son.  
Mycroft arrived in short time, a look upon his face which no one had ever witnessed. He had planned to comfort his mother and father. To be the pillar upon which they leaned for support. But when he saw Sherlock, Mycroft lost his composure.  
"What the bloody hell was Sherrinford doing in that crack house?" Mycroft growled at Sherlock.  
Sherlock slipped from his mother's vice and with fire in his eyes he charged down Mycroft. He himself didn't recognize the screaming voice that came out of him.  
"What were your men doing in that crack house?!" Sherlock screeched. He had Mycroft on the ground, pinned like Sherrinford had showed him how to do when they were younger.  
"I told you I was planning a sting operation on them!" Mycroft spluttered angrily. "WHY was Sherrinford there?"  
"I told YOU to keep your men away from there!"  
"This is your fault," Mycroft said, seething under Sherlock's grip. "You were always an addict. Always causing problems."  
Mycroft wiggled out from under Sherlock's hold and stood up. Mr. Holmes took his change and held Sherlock back, wrapping his surprisingly strong arms around his son's middle.  
"Both of you stop it!" Mr. Holmes hollered. "This is not the place. Don't do this here," he told them. "Think of your mother, boys. She needs you."  
Mycroft regained his stoic composure and smoothed his disheveled hair.  
"Apologies, mother." Mycroft said, defeated. He sat down next to their mother and put a loving arm around her.  
Sherlock was still captive under his father's grip. He was not calm. He was not rational. His breathing was more and more erratic and the longer he stood there, held back by his father the more agitated he became.  
"This wasn't anyone's fault," Mr. Holmes said quietly. "This was an accident."  
"An accident?" Sherlock balked. "It was an accident when Mycroft didn't listen when I said to leave that crack house alone?"  
Sherlock threw his father off him and once again charged down Mycroft, ripping him from the chair and grabbing him by the throat. Sherlock pushed him backward and backward. Mycroft put up a hearty fight, but he was never an athlete like his brothers. Sherlock was just too strong. Sherlock forced him ever-backwards and in his wild rage he threw Mycroft down the stairwell.  
Mycroft barreled down the stairs, grunting and groaning with every step he crashed into. Finally, he landed with a sickening crunch at the middle landing, and he lay still.

"The fall gave him an abdominal hernia and a permanent spinal injury," Sherlock said in a gravelly voice.  
John's jaw fell open. He now understood why Mycroft never did field work. It was because he couldn't.  
"I spent the week in jail," Sherlock told him. "I still think Mycroft was more upset about the injuries I caused him than that Sherrinford..."  
"This is why you and Mycroft hate each other?" John realized. "Because of Sherrinford?"  
"Mostly," Sherlock admitted sadly.  
"So...What happened was, Sherrinford was dealing drugs for you because he had connections with the guy that ran the crack house...Mycroft, being Scotland Yard at the time, was planning a sting operation on the very same crack house. You knew Mycroft was watching them, and you told him to stay away. But Mycroft never considered that Sherrinford would be there, least of all when the string operation took place. My God."  
"Yes, I've just told you all that," Sherlock said, turning cross. "Weren't you listening?"  
The doorbell buzzed once again. Voices drifted from the hallway and became louder and louder until they were at Sherlock's door.  
"Are you there, brother mine?"  
"Go away!" Sherlock snapped at the door.  
John stood and let Mycroft in, ignoring Sherlock's protests. Sherlock immediately hardened his countenance, all traces of mourning, or of any emotion whatsoever, were gone.  
"How are you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. His voice was soft and concerned, a change from his usual arrogant tone.  
"Fine," Sherlock said, taking up his violin and scratching away at the strings. Mycroft spoke over the hideous sound, choosing not to tell Sherlock to stop.  
"He's not," John told Mycroft, pulling up a wooden chair from the kitchen and placing it between Sherlock's armchair and his own. He sat in the wooden one, and offered his armchair to Mycroft.  
Sherlock cursed John in the moment. He opened up to him for the first time, even after being best friends for years. And then John let Mycroft in. Sherlock couldn't be seen in such a state by his brother.  
"I've gone to see Mum and Dad," Mycroft said. "They're doing alright. We went to his grave earlier."  
"How charming." Sherlock spat.  
"I thought that maybe you and I could go," Mycroft offered. "We ought to be together today."  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, harshness in his voice. "It's been years. Why now?"  
"Better late than never."  
"I think 'never' is a more appropriate term." Sherlock said, tossing his violin aside.  
Mycroft looked deeply into his baby brother's eyes.  
"I should never have left you in jail," he said, shaking his head sadly. "You were always so sensitive...all I did was lock you up with your worst enemy. Yourself."  
John wondered how it was that Sherlock was sensitive. Sherlock, apart from Mycroft, was the most emotionally removed person he'd ever met. Tonight was the first time Sherlock had ever given John a glimpse of what was going on inside his heart.  
"You shouldn't have killed Sherrinford," Sherlock said scathingly.  
"Sherlock..." Mycroft began, but didn't finish. He didn't know what to say.  
"I'll be leaving, then," Mycroft said quietly. He stood, shook John's hand, and took one last mournful look at his brother before letting himself out.  
John waited until Mycroft was gone before speaking his thoughts.  
"You should go, Sherlock," he told his friend. "Have you never been to his grave?"  
"No," Sherlock said, though it sounded more in opposition to John's suggestion than an answer to his question. "Graveyards aren't really my thing."  
"He's your brother," John said.  
"He's a pile of bones and maggot-eaten clothes," Sherlock said harshly. "Sherrinford is long gone. Only his body remains. What is a body but the shell of a snail? Visiting his grave will do him no favors."  
"It would do you," John told him.  
"You're not getting high tonight," John told him firmly. "And you've got nothing else to do. And nothing to lose, either."  
Sherlock huffed and moved from his chair to the couch, curling up in a ball, away from John.  
"You're acting like a child."  
"I'm an adult. I can act like a child if I want."  
John sat down and watched Sherlock, who refused to budge. It was almost an hour, and John was convinced that Sherlock had fallen asleep. John wasn't fool enough to take a nap, though. He had to be fully alert, in case Sherlock got any bright ideas. The mind of an addict was dangerous, particularly that of the genius Sherlock Holmes.  
"I must be alone," Sherlock said suddenly.  
John looked up with a start.  
"I told you I'm not letting you out of-"  
"At the cemetery." Sherlock cut him off. "If we went...would you give me a moment of privacy?"  
John looked his friend hard in the eye. "You better not try anything funny," he warned him.  
So John hailed them a cab and they went to the cemetery where Sherrinford was buried. It was a long car ride, filled with silence. John didn't want to push Sherlock any further than Sherlock wanted to be pushed. Sherlock liked to put up this front that he was divorced from all feelings. That he was cold, and calculating, and that he was better for it. But John could always see through the stoic mask Sherlock wore. He knew that only the most fragile hearts needed guarding.  
"Take your time," John told Sherlock at the gates. "I'll just be over here."  
John sat down on the bench outside the cemetery gates and Sherlock entered. The wrought-iron doors taller than he screeched as he moved them open. It took Sherlock a few minutes to find Sherrinford. He had never been to the cemetery at all before. He didn't know exactly where to look.  
Finally, he found Sherrinford. The stone was beautiful, for it was not an average tomb. It was a white, marble-carved angel, reaching for the heavens as if its wings were broken and it could not fly. The heading read: "Terrence Sherrinford Arthur Holmes. A loving son and brother. B. July 9, 1976 D. November 2, 1999."  
Today was November second. Sherlock would never forget, all those years ago, how his heart stopped inside his chest when he received a call that his brother Sherrinford had been shot. His heart still struggled to bear the pain.  
"It should have been me," Sherlock told the marble angel. He knew he wasn't talking to Sherrinford, but it had to be worth something. His face became wet with tears as he sobbed quietly. "It's my fault you're here instead of up here with everyone else."  
Sherlock heard a crunching of leaves behind him.  
"John, please. Privacy."  
"I'm not John," a new voice said behind him. Sherlock turned to see a man, tall and thin, of about the same age as he. He had under his arm a bouquet of flowers and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.  
"Good evening," the man said. "My name is Benjamin Cartwright."  
"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, wiping the wetness from his cheeks and eyes.  
Benjamin Cartwright dropped his bouquet of flowers at the sound of Sherlock's name.  
"Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Yes," Sherlock said uneasily. "Can I help you?"  
The man flung himself at Sherlock and began to wail. It was like a switch had turned on that started the waterworks. He had a strong hold on Sherlock, whose arms were now locked at his sides in Benjamin Cartwrights' embrace.  
Sherlock was too shocked, or perhaps, too calm, to react. Finally Benjamin Cartwright let him go.  
"Forgive me," he said, wiping away the tears from his own eyes now. He bent down to place the flowers upon the marble angels' feet. "I've come here every year on this day. I come as often as I can. I've met Sherrinford's whole family, except for one man. And now, today, after all these years I finally meet Sherlock Holmes."  
Benjamin Cartwright was tearful yet there was joy in his voice.  
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. He noticed that Benjamin Cartwright had uncommonly clear-blue eyes, and dark, loosely curly hair. The resemblance Benjamin Cartwright bore to Sherlock was uncanny.  
"I was the officer that shot Sherrinford," Benjamin Cartwright said sadly. Sherlock stared at him.  
"It was an accident. I was armed, and he tried to run. Would you believe, of all the cruel jokes of the universe, that he tripped and fell on me?" Benjamin Cartwright shook his head with bitterness. "The gun just went off. The bullet pierced his aortic valve. He didn't survive very long. He did say one thing, though, before he died."  
"He did?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yes. He said I look like Sherlock. I didn't know who that was until his funeral. I was surprised to learn that you weren't there. Sherrinford's last thoughts he ever had were about his little brother. I couldn't understand why Sherlock wouldn't go to Sherrinford's funeral," Benjamin Cartwright told him. "Sherrinford loved you so much."  
"I know," Sherlock said, swallowing hard. "But I couldn't face him."  
"Face him?"  
"I couldn't be there. I didn't deserve to be there. It's my fault he's dead, Benjamin Cartwright. Not yours."  
Sherlock explained his struggle with drugs that he'd had since early adolescence. Sherrinford was the only one who saw his needs. One, to focus his chaotic mind, and two, to alleviate the dullness that was existence. Sherrinford was collecting a particularly strong solution of cocaine for Sherlock, and was able to do so because of his career as a professional boxer alongside the late Big Daddy, who was also an infamous drug lord.  
"The only reason Sherrinford was at the drug den was because I asked him to get me some extra strong cocaine. He just wanted to help me. And I got him killed."  
Benjamin Cartwright put a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Would you like to light a candle for him?" he asked.  
"Light a candle?"  
Benjamin Cartwright rummaged through his messenger bag and pulled out a candle. It was identical to some of the candles that were scattered about the graveyard, placed in front of every so many graves. A small white tea light sat inside a deep red plastic sheath, ornamented with religious symbols, of saints, crucifixes, angels, or doves.  
Benjamin Cartwright handed Sherlock the candle and passed him a small lighter from his pocket. Sherlock took the candle. He knew what to do with it. He wasn't religious but he was familiar with Christian customs. He lit the candle and Benjamin Cartwright recited a "Hail Mary."  
"Thank you," Sherlock said.  
"No," Benjamin Cartwright said, a small smile upon his lips. "Thank you, Sherlock."


	5. Chapter 5

John and Sherlock took another cab back to Baker Street. Again, the ride was silent. John looked on at Sherlock in curiosity. What had he felt seeing Sherrinfords' grave? Who was the man that approached him there? And how was Sherlock going to handle the rest of the night?  
Sherlock flung himself from the car before it fully stopped and flew up the seventeen steps to get to 221B. John chased after him, certain he was going to lock John out and find something to overdose on. John was only a few seconds behind Sherlock, but when he entered the apartment, Sherlock was already frantically rummaging under the couch for something.  
"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Stop!"  
Sherlock ignored his friend and at last found what he was looking for. He triumphantly pulled out an Arabian slipper and fished out a thick handful of cigarettes.  
"A container, John," Sherlock said. "Give me something. Anything."  
John quickly looked around and found an empty shipping box, and handed it over. Sherlock threw the cigarettes into the box, and moved on to other places. Little by little, Sherlock filled the box with packs and packs of cigarettes and several baggies of cocaine. This surprised John because he knew Sherlock preferred injection.  
"Snorting does the trick in a pinch," Sherlock said distractedly.  
John was prepared to wrestle Sherlock to the ground if that's what he needed to do to stop Sherlock from taking anything in that box of poison. But what Sherlock did next couldn't have shocked John more.  
"Follow me, John," Sherlock said, leading the way to the bathroom.  
There, Sherlock flushed handfuls of cocaine and cigarettes down the toilet until the box was empty. It was both empowering Sherlock and hurting him to do so. He wanted to get better, to be better, but he was still an addict and he might as well be flushing his life-preserver.  
The deed was done. Sherlock sat back, panting heavily.  
"Sherlock..." John said delicately.  
Sherlock looked up at John.  
"I have a problem, John," Sherlock said seriously. "I always have, and it got my brother killed. I don't want to be like this anymore, John. I need help."  
John didn't know whether he should laugh or cry, for Sherlock's desperation was both relieving and heartbreaking. He held out his hand, which Sherlock grasped firmly, and he hoisted him to his feet.  
"It's a good thing I'm your doctor, then," John said, pulling Sherlock into a hug, which Sherlock embraced. "Doctors are always there to help."


End file.
